


Bruised Possessions

by EjBlaKit



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Bruises, Emo baby Kylo, F/M, Force Choking, Hux has had a rough day, I tried to write some light hearted smut but oops, Introspection, Rey is very confident, Reylo - Freeform, Reylux - Freeform, Reyux, shower time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 05:09:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7346350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EjBlaKit/pseuds/EjBlaKit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the solitude of a darkened room, three souls drift together, bound by fate, power and something deeper, darker, and hungrier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bruised Possessions

**Author's Note:**

> So, I tried to write some fun little Reylux smut and ... Yeah. Sorry.  
> Enjoy?

He pressed his fingertips lightly to his throat, but couldn't bring himself to grimace at the dull flare of pain the touch provided. He'd caught his reflection in the mirror, the splay of dark purple bruises budding into the shape of a large hand. 

Water dripped from his hair, sluicing down his body as he stared at his feet, not bothering to blink the hot droplets from his eyes. Muscles twinged and complained as he inhaled deeply, ribs shifting to compensate for his expanding lungs. 

No, he couldn't bring himself to grimace about the bruises that laced his throat like a nightmarish necklace, no more than he could bring himself to despise the equally large bruises that adorned his hips and waist. 

Steam swirled about him, clouding the refresher in a delicious fog of white. 

He heard the door to the room open and close, the admitted cold air swirling a vortex through the thick clouds. Soft footfalls moving towards him, the shower door sliding and shutting behind him. He didn't turn around. He kept one hand braced on the wall before him, his other pressed lightly against his collarbone, head down, shoulders hunched, breaths slow and even. 

'He doesn't do it intentionally,' she said, voice soft over the patter of hot water. Her skin was soft and smooth against his, fingers tracing marks he couldn't see and hadn't noticed. He could feel the sting of broken skin under her touch, nail gouges to match the mottled bruises.

'They're very intentional.' 

She brushed under him, face appearing in his line of sight. Expressive hazel eyes stared up at him, dark hair growing darker as the water stuck it to her forehead, her neck and shoulders. 

He offered her a faint smile.

Despite the blemishes, he felt fairly good. His body thrummed, under an exhausted ache and the pleasant pound of water down his spine. The last shift had been beyond draining, physically and mentally, and the chafing under his uniform collar almost unbearable. But he felt good, accomplished, churning out reports and demanding answers, forcibly retrieving intelligence from a captured spy. The Supreme Leader would be pleased, and he would earn himself another little stamp of approval on a list already infinitely long. That didn't stop the extreme displeasure, or stop his accomplishments being reduced to dust at the slightest perceived error in judgement, but it helped. 

She had maneuvered herself so that she was standing between him and the wall, their height difference allowing her to remain standing straight, even though her head was still tilted up to his. A droplet rolled down his nose and fell onto her cheek. He huffed warm air against her face, making her smile. He could see her breasts, almost pressed against his chest, the swell of her hips, the smooth expanse of her deceptively muscular stomach.

'I like them.' Her head tilted ever so slightly as she spoke, trying to gauge his reaction. He didn't have one, not yet. Not about the bruises.

Her hand joined his, tracing out the marks delicately. 

Heat blossomed and fanned out from her touch, sinking deep into his skin, his muscles, settling heavily in his bones. It was as startling as it was familiar, the way this girl could get inside of him so easily. He could smell the sweat of her over the metallic tinge of the steam. Small balls of liquid beaded on her eyelashes as she flicked her gaze up to meet his.

'I don't think you're supposed to like them.' He finally said as her hands finally came to rest against his chest, fingers splayed over his heart. He imagined her feeling the rhythmic beat and wondered what was going through her head. He wondered if the Force distorted such a basic human function into something deep and mystical, providing some insight into how he lived his life and conducted his daily affairs. Her lips twitched as if she'd heard him. Perhaps she had. 

'I do, though. I'm not going to say they suit you, but I like what they mean.'

'You've spent too much time with our Master Knight,' he teased gently, eternally amused at how dark and seemingly corrupt their little desert girl was.

'First and foremost a survivor,' she reminded him, rising to her tiptoes as she leant upwards and forwards. Her lips ghosted gently across the brand on his skin. 'I can appreciate wanting to make it known that I own something.' 

'I'm not a possession.' His voice wavered ever so slightly at the warm graze of her tongue beneath his ear, the brush of her nipples against his chest. Desire rolled down through his chest and into his groin. He could feel his cock begin to stir. 

'You're my possession,' she countered easily, stepping closer so their bodies were flush. He wrapped the arm not supporting his weight around the curve of her waist, fingers fanning over the swell of her bottom. She felt good and right, fitted so snugly against him. Satisfaction rumbled up through his chest, a surge of protectiveness and desire. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, holding her closer still. 

She glanced up at him as one of her hands slipped low, lower, dipping into his navel before curving around his swelling shaft. He hissed through his teeth at the jolt of electricity, the heavy want now throbbing through him. She tightened her grip and he stepped her back into the wall, squishing her as he captured her mouth in a tauntingly light kiss. 

She was panting, pupils blown wide, chest flushed.

Her hand moved again and he lost all reason.

\-----

Leather creaked as he shifted slightly, the coarse fabric of his tunic rubbing against his skin.

He could feel them quite clearly, emotions and sensations echoing through his skull. Amplifying louder and louder because of her. Because of the thing in their minds that strung them together, hooked in and pulsing a feedback loop of every inane thought and desire that wasn't moderated or locked down.

He would let them, though. They deserved it, and the General was right, of course. They were no ones possessions. They were his play things. 

He flexed his fingers, feeling the joints pop and crackle, a stark contrast to the dazzling burst of pleasure that fired through his synapses, ghosts of feeling curling through his veins in aftershock. 

The refresher door was shut, a sliver of light peeking from the base. But all was quiet within, save the faint hum of water flowing through the pipes.

He could meditate, pass away the time until the door slid open and revealed the occupants, but he didn't. Instead he sat in the dimly lit room that smelt faintly of cigarettes and cologne and waited, allowing his mind to wander and dip into thought. Of his inevitable departure from the ship, of how he would have to leave her here, unguarded, unprotected. 

His worry was unnecessary, he understood that. She was a firestorm, wilful and dangerous, strong and agile. But she would be alone. The General had no time for socialising, and even if he did, he would not be caught entertaining the Knights apprentice. It wouldn't be seemly. She would be relegated to training rooms and small conference halls, but mostly to her quarters, as if she were a prisoner once more.

The thought disturbed him more than it should, and he quashed it, pushing it to the furthest reaches of his consciousness so it could not be drawn forth and peered at by unforgiving eyes. 

As if summoned by the thought, he felt the sickly, icy slide of sharp attention against his mind. It faded away again with disinterest. He had not been called for a reprimand or a meeting.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat again, patience ebbing quickly as the chill from the visitation slipped down his neck and into his spine, radiating through his limbs, into his fingers and toes with spiking shards. Nausea rolled slowly through his gut, pulsing in his chest in lazy waves. Sweat beaded on his forehead, behind his ears, his knees, between his shoulder blades, on his upper lip. The urge to vomit passed with torturous slowness, counterpointed by a roll of heat and joy and good that lanced from his brain to his groin with one decisive strike. 

The moan was low, horrible. He felt like hell and imagined he looked worse.

The fingers of his right hand scrabbled along the coarse surface of his helmet, trying to stabilise his mind, to focus on what was, not what had been or what could be. His apprentice was here, now, happy and whole and welcome. 

The twist of fear in his gut twisted all the harder. He was abandoning her. That's what she would think, abandoning her to this thankless hunk of floating metal, trapped in space, when he'd promised her he would never leave. That he would never let anyone do that to her again.

'Hey.' He hadn't heard the door open. His head snapped up, train of thought halted, but not forgotten as he took her in. Framed in the doorway, light at her back. 

His apprentice. 

His.

He could not own her, could never possess her fully, was lucky to have this.

But she would still be forever his.

'Cut it out.' She was stepping out of the refresher. He caught a glimpse of orange hair and an expanse of broad white back before the door slid shut, slipping them back into the gloom of his ponderings. 

Water droplets on her skin caught the starlight from the windows, reflecting and sparkling as she padded towards him. The shadows only enhanced the structure of her cheekbones, her nose, the determined clench of her jaw. Her eyes gleamed softly as she stopped before him, completely nude.

He didn't insult her by looking at her body. He only held her eyes. 

The bond between them thrummed, taught and wanting. 

'Ren.' She said his name so softly. It curled through his mind, unlocking small pathways, unfurling tension from his muscles, relaxing his posture. 'Why are you here?' She asked, head tilting in question. Water dripped from wet strands, tracking down her bare shoulders, over the muscular curves of her arms, down slender wrists and strong hands. It pattered to the carpeted floor.

'I wanted to see you.'

'These are his quarters.'

'I know.'

The silence stretched long and comfortable between them as she mused over his answer. Her face had turned towards the viewport, unseeing as her thoughts took over. 

He was content to sit and watch her. Her very presence a blanket over his tumultuous conscience. 

He didn't mind that she was here, in a place that was not hers. In the arms of another man that was also his man. A convoluted triangle of want and need and hunger and control. Forever about power. He understood it all, more than the General thought, but he didn't mind. Not when he could benefit. Not when he could twist and turn them to his own will. They were strong pieces, and the best way to lead was to make them think they were taking command. At least, in theory. When he said jump, she sat, when he said speak, she went silent. A stubborn little creature that had sunk her claws in and never let go. A lot less compliant than the man still ensconced in the refresher.

The bond between them pulsed and hummed, pleasant and kind.

'I can see the appeal.' She finally said. He looked up at her, always content just to hear her voice, regardless of how cruel or respectful the words she said were. 

'In regards to what?' He found himself asking when she refused to elaborate, her mind still lost into the void of stars and space and other. 

She answered with action instead of sweet, dulcet tones.

He felt the pressure against his neck, light at first, but tightening slowly, growing stronger, more forceful. His chest strained at the sudden constriction, throat closing uncomfortably as his vision began to waver.

She did not look at him, but she was paying close attention.

'You should tell him, you know.' She offered, allowing him a brief intake of air before returning the grip. He could see her fingers twitching. Those long, delicate fingers, extended ever so slightly from the smooth expanse of her thigh, directed towards him.

He refused to clutch at his throat, to beg for air. Everything was tense and struggling, blood pounding in his head, lungs filling and filling with nothing, hands clenching, unclenching, clenching. 

'You should tell me, too.' She turned to face him then, and his black-spotted gaze dropped to the sway of her hips as she straddled him. Her lips ghosted over his, heedless of the strands of spit dribbling from his mouth as he panted and gasped as silently as he could. 

Oxygen flooded ice through his aching chest, expanding brilliant white into his starved brain. He coughed. She watched, arms draped over his shoulders, knees on either side of his hips. The moisture of her skin seeped into the blackness of his robes. He studied her in awe, just as he always did. She had a dark streak that ran all the way through her, neatly wedged in amongst the light. It thrilled him always when she brought it out for him, showing him what she could do.

Light finger tips made quick work of the ties around his chest, his neck guard slipping away with his cowl and tunic. She ran her hands up the fabric of his arm bindings before pressing them gently against the abused skin of his throat. He knew she was looking for the marks, waiting to see them blossom pink, then red, then purple. He allowed himself a slight hiss of pain when she pressed harder. 

They sat in the gloom of a room that wasn't theirs, waiting to see if she had marked him. 

The refresher door opened and the General stepped out, wearing only a pair of trousers, his hair tousled but not gelled down. He was preparing for bed. He gave no indication of surprise to find Ren sitting in his quarters with her straddling him. He merely increased the light volume so that he could see, before moving to his bunk to sit and observe.

Ren focused back on the girl in his lap.

He was hard and her weight was pleasant, but neither of them seemed inclined to do anything other than this. The watching and feeling and waiting.

Her skin was warm, her hand soft despite the calluses along the ridge of her palm and the lengths of her fingers. She had splayed them into a grip that her power had moments ago held him in. The muscles in her arm constricted as she tightened, and he let her, too entranced by her curiosity and will.

His apprentice. So powerful and intelligent, so far beyond anything he could ever hope to achieve, let alone dream of. His Master was foolish for refusing to see it. Claims of infatuation and clouded judgement, of not being able to see clearly because of some girl. 

No. 

He could see very well indeed. 

The small, naked woman on his lap was more commander than the General, more warrior than the First Knight of Ren, more Force sensitive than the Supreme Leader himself. She chose to do only as she wished and would bend for no one, not even him, and for that she had his reverent respect and admiration.

Love.

Her grip tightened and his breath staggered. The spots began to return, and she shifted her hips ever so slightly.

He groaned.

He didn't care if the General heard.

She shifted her hips again and hazel eyes glimmered wickedly down at him.

The bond between them was electrified, eager and urgent.

She rocked forward and her lips trembled. She bit down and he wanted to kiss her. But he couldn't, she wouldn't let him. His desert storm, wild and fierce and unpredictable. 

Heat prickled through his belly and into his groin and he hoped she'd never let him out of her grasp.

He was leaving her.

He hoped she never let go.

She moaned, head tilting forward, strands of hair falling into her face, before she slid back slightly. A small hand slipped below the waist of his pants and he lifted himself to help her wriggle down the material to free his thighs, to free his erection. She no longer physically held his throat but the pressure was there all the same, giving and taking, taking, taking. 

Satisfaction rolled from her in thick waves, mingled with desire and tenderness, with fascination and heat. It all lapped into his mind, churning together with his own wants and needs, his own fears and hopes until there was nothing but a roiling mess of _we_. Not him, not her, not the General on the bed, green eyes glittering beneath pale lashes, hands folded neatly on his bare belly. We. 

She adjusted herself, pressing closer to him again, her breasts brushing against his chest, soft against hard muscle and knotted scars. She held his shoulders as she lifted herself up. And then she was sliding down, down, so slowly. Her heat encircled him, moist and right and welcoming. His head fell back against the chair cushion and he groaned again. She was also so perfect for this. He had never felt anything as good or as right as this. No one could compare.

She pressed soft kisses against the pressure on his throat, nibbled down the length of his collarbone as she begin to rise again. He rocked his hips and she nipped him harder. He stilled and let her take control, as she did in all things.

He let her wring out his moans and gasps and pants, let her deprive him of his air as she began to move faster, more determined as the fire within both of them began to build. He could feel it swirling and pulsing in his groin, in his gut, shooting hot tendrils through his arms, his legs, scattering pins and needles across his scalp and down his spine. Electricity crackled as she sucked marks along his shoulder and down his chest. She bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, her hair brushing against his face, tongue delving and tasting. And he let her. 

She was his. 

Ultimately, though, he was hers. They both were. Whole heartedly.

His eyelids fluttered as black spots multiplied and threatened to steal his vision of her flushed face entirely. Air sliced through him in an instant, her grip slackened as her sweat-slick skin slid across his, hot and heavy as she tilted her hips just so and the spots turned blinding white. Pure bliss wrenched him out of his own body, tearing out the very essence of himself until he was him again. Until he was the Master Knight. Until it was just her body rocking gently against him. Until it was her lips pressing warm kisses against the tender flesh of his throat, against the burgeoning bruises. Until it was his seed spilling from her as she slowly stood, his large hand clutched in her small ones as she tugged him to his feet. 

The General had risen from sentry duty.

She had not come, but they had all night.

He did not have to abandon her just yet.


End file.
